The fashion designer recounts her life-altering struggle with a brain tumor and how the harrowing recovery has changed her. As told to Derek Blasberg.

Something was wrong for a while. I was besieged by paralyzing headaches. My longtime doctor in Los Angeles, whom I had been going to since I was a teenage actress living in California, was convinced I had TMJ. That made sense because my mom has that. But when the headaches got more painful and I was losing hearing in one ear and getting severe bouts of dizziness, I remember thinking that diagnosis didn't sound quite right. It felt like something was different, like it was worse.

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I told my doctor I wanted an MRI. He made me feel like a neurotic New Yorker—a Woody Allen character come to life. He rationalized that I should be spending my creative energy and imagination on my work, not my health. I trusted him, and I didn't get a second opinion. Sometimes when you're too close to a doctor, you trust that person too much. Now I wish I had done the MRI sooner. When I finally paid for one myself, the test uncovered a benign, golf-ball-size acoustic neuroma (acoustic because it starts near the inner ear, and neuroma means nerve tumor) on the right side of my brain. They are not hereditary, and their cause is unknown.

In May 2009, I was told I needed surgery—specifically, a craniotomy with the translabyrinthine approach. Because the tumor was benign and slow growing (as this type often is), it didn't need to be removed immediately, but I did need a plan. After the initial scare of the tumor, though, another fear sprang up: How could I possibly afford this? I didn't have health insurance. I'd always had Screen Actors Guild insurance, but because I had been focusing on fashion design and living in New York, my policy had lapsed.

Oren Segal, who saw a short film I made with the retail chain Bebe for our collaboration, is my manager for acting and directing. He made some calls on my behalf as an actor. Many of my friends in L.A. made introductions and told me about films and auditions. I scored a role in Abandoned, the late Brittany Murphy's last film; she was an amazing girl and a good friend. I will also appear in the new Jim Brooks film with Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, and Owen Wilson, and Tatiana von Furstenberg cast me in a short film she made in Austria.

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The good news was, once I fulfilled my quota, I could get SAG insurance again. The bad news: It wouldn't kick in until September, so I would have to live with the tumor until then.

The next three months were what I call my hippie-metaphysical-treatment phase. Because I grew up with ashram parents who were into meditation, this approach felt much more comfortable than a brain operation: acupuncture, herbs, and silent meditation retreats with Tibetan lamas in upstate New York. You really want to believe that it's possible to heal yourself. When you find out you have a brain tumor, the intensity of believing in everything is almost like that of a child.

At the end of the summer, I came back to L.A. to prep for surgery and have another MRI. I was hoping the tumor had shrunk, that surgery would no longer be necessary. But it had grown larger and faster than the doctors had anticipated. I needed the craniotomy right away. Still, my instinct was to postpone surgery, stick with the alternative methods, and work more so I could put money in the bank. The doctors told me I might not be able to work for a year afterward, and I'd never saved for a rainy day. In fact, I had liked to think that I just skipped rainy days, but not this time. It was a deluge.

All of my close friends knew my financial situation, which is why they organized a benefit with a charity in my honor last July. Jessica Craig-Martin, Cecily Brown, Jeffrey Deitch, Yvonne Force Villareal, and Arden Wohl—so many people from the New York art world—came together because they were concerned I wouldn't be able to afford the surgery or finance my recovery. Unfortunately, for myriad reasons, it didn't work out, but it came from such a good place. The charity paid for two medical bills and is now returning the remainder of the money to the donors.

The date of my operation was September 10, 2009. It was performed by Derald Brackmann, head of the House Ear Clinic in L.A. and the man who perfected this type of surgery. He is such a nice man; he feels like this warm grandfather. Some doctors who are that specialized don't have sensitivity. Think about it: Cutting people open on a daily basis is somewhat pathological. I like to believe that good surgeons could become mass murderers, but instead they use their powers for good.

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The actual surgery was a success. I was under anesthesia for 14 hours, but I have only vague memories of them shaving my head on one side and then waking up.

They said the recovery would be intense. I would have temporary facial paralysis on one side and auditory hallucinations; I would be disoriented and sick. I have to have regular MRIs for the rest of my life. I've permanently lost the balance nerve and full hearing on my right side. Because of this, there is the challenge of constant vertigo. I am still in physical therapy and learning how to compensate for this loss, and I am so grateful for my physical therapist, Teresa England, who taught me to respect the process of recovery. Healing is sometimes slow, and any pace but fast was alien to me. To me, the idea of patience and gradual progress was a very foreign idea. I truly learned patience from this woman, and how to appreciate the smallest signs of improvement.

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My brother, Daniel Subkoff, an artist who lives in New York City, gave up three months of his life to move to L.A. to take care of me. I'm beyond thankful for this! He put his life on hold to help me with mine, which I find mind-blowing in this day and age. If you've ever taken care of a family member who is on heavy meds, you know it's a lot, and I have total appreciation for my brother. I couldn't do anything on my own and was going a little mad, and he dealt with it with such patience and compassion.

Whenever my brother and I couldn't bear it anymore, we leaned heavily on two very close friends I have known since grade school, Lisa Addario and Joey Syracuse, and their kids, Lulu and Augie. They taught me how to laugh in the face of hardship. They are the best comedy screenwriters out there and can make me smile through anything. Even this. Believe me when I say laughter is a powerful medicine. It makes everything heal a whole lot faster. I'm striving to get funnier and less serious every day. I know I have a new goal in life: finding the ability to see everything a bit lighter and with humor.

Perhaps the biggest challenge in all this has been learning to slow down. I have never not gone anywhere for this extended length of time since before high school. It's been seven months and counting. When I was doing the independent fashion label Imitation of Christ, we did shows in Cuba, Brazil, and Paris. I was all over the place. And when I wasn't traveling for work, I was traveling to all corners of the world to visit friends and chase adventure.

I'm not sure I miss that old lifestyle, though. I feel different. It doesn't even make sense for me to compare the two. Will I live at that pace again? Maybe. I have projects coming up, and I now have the energy and desire to get back to work, but it won't ever be like that again. I feel lucky and excited as each new thing unfolds.

I'm developing a script with Sylvia Sichel, who wrote a film I was in called All Over Me, and I would love to direct it. I was enthralled and inspired when I watched Tom Ford's debut film, A Single Man. It was visually beautiful and emotional, and I was truly blown away. It renewed my belief that a good designer can be a good director.

There's also fashion, which I'm excited to reenter. Looking back, I feel like the Sinéad O'Connor of the fashion world. I started working in this industry when I was so young and such a little punk. I was discussing stuff I wasn't mature enough to understand, and some of the things I said were so silly and controversial. But I'd like to think I understand it all a little better now. What can I say? I'm in a much different place, and I'd like to apologize to anyone I offended in my brash days.

I loved Imitation of Christ. For a long time, it was my life, and it was incredible, and I was so grateful for the opportunities it provided. But there was a massive amount of confusion about its original incarnation. The name got so big, and it appeared to be such a giant success, but like most things that are artistic and creative and amazing, it was never this financial powerhouse. It was an art project. It was rewarding to spearhead, and it was a great collaboration with Matt Damhave and so many other amazing people, but I had to work about four or five other jobs—a shoe collaboration with Easy Spirit and consulting for Sara Lee Apparel (which owned Wonderbra, Hanes, and Playtex)—just to keep the company afloat.

While I've been recovering, I've decided to bring back IOC in its most basic incarnation: easy-to-wear staples with an edge. I'm calling this line just "Imitation." I'm inspired by Coco Chanel and her use of jersey. I'd like to do that with Imitation. I want something as effortless as a T-shirt, but in dress, trench, and jacket shapes.

I'm really happy right now. I'm living in L.A. in a tiny bungalow with a big garden filled with lavender flowers and two rescued puppies a friend found abandoned and gave me. I've named them Franny and Seymour, and they've helped me heal and forced me to get outside every day and see the sunshine. It feels super California, like Goldie Hawn in the '60s.

Now that I'm spending more time at home, I've started dabbling with painting again. I've always been an arts-and-crafts sort of girl, and I have done these tiny little watercolors forever. They're little doodles that capture a moment. Usually I've just given them to friends and family, but I've started to frame them in blown glass so they're frozen in their own world.

So much of this time has been about appreciating life in the moment. If you focus, you will discover that even the hard ones have something beautiful to them. Life is so fast, it feels important to stop and freeze and appreciate the now. Even if the now is being stuck in hideous traffic with a flat tire, I bet if you look there's a doughnut shop across the street. So just before I lose control, I take a breath and try to remember that there's always something sweet just around the corner.